


If it takes a war

by GwenChan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Human, Blasphemy, F/M, Historical References, Mention of blood, Original Character(s), Swearing, Wounds, irish revolution, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 20:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21344305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: Ireland, 1915. All the hopes and delusions of a country fighting for its freedom. There's Alistair, arrived in Dublin to vent all his anger in the revolution. And there's Evelyn, a fierce and terrible beauty, who seems to be the incarnation of Ireland itself.
Relationships: Scotland/Female Ireland
Kudos: 4





	If it takes a war

**If it takes a war**

He had met the girl at the end of one of the local protests in honor of Valera.

The young woman took a drag of smoke, then handed him what was left of the cigarette. Alistair did not decline the offer.

"So what drives a foreigner to come and listen to our anger?" asked the woman with her left hand pressed to her head to hold a hat that would otherwise flow away. Auburn curls stood out against her pale but freckled skin.

"The same as yours. A desire for freedom," replied Alistair throwing the butt to the ground. With a kick he sent him rolling down the cobblestones. Evelyn faked a laugh.

"I would rather call it the desire to see the British flee with their tails between their legs after being kicked in the butt."

Alistair grinned in approval. "No word was righter. Miss? "

"Evelyn, Evelyn O'Donnell."

So she presented herself, a few months after the disastrous Éirí Amach na Cásca.

A terrible beauty was born.

"It's a pity I didn't arrive first, Miss Evelyn."

When Alistair had heard of Valera's failed attempt to overthrow the British government in Edinburgh, there had been no doubt in the decision to take the first available ship to go to the site. Scotland could have lost all hope of independence for the time being, but if Ireland managed to put London in check, that surely had his support.

Unemployment also had its advantages.

"Would it have made a difference?"

"No, but I would have gladly taken part in the action."

Evelyn didn't seem convinced. There was a hint of coldness in her words and gestures. The brim of her hat hid part of her face, casting a shadow over her eyes and part of her nose and cheekbones. Light created the illusion she was older than her age. He couldn't have been more than twenty, Alistair considered. Yet it was enough for a cloud to move a few centimetres in the sky for Evelyn's face to grow old.

No. Old was not the right word. That milky-white, slightly chubby face was not old. It was ancient.

"Really? Mr?"

"Alistair. Alistair K. "

On the evening of their meeting, Evelyn introduced him to a couple from Sinn Fein with whom Alistair spoke at length about how many possibilities Eire had to go back to having an independent Parlament.

"You see, as a people, we are much older than the English," Collins commented - only a namesake of the most famous revolutionary - "And we know. As Joyce says - did he read it? "

"Something."

"I have to lend you Dubliners. The portrait is bleak but alas truthful. We are old and we have collapsed on ourselves. But things are about to change. "He concluded, no longer bothering to keep his voice under control. The thud of the mug on the table sounded like an exclamation point. Alistair declared his approval, then rummaging in his pockets looking for some change.

"Allow me to offer you the next round," he announced, laying some crumpled bills on the table. When the new beers were in front of them, he turned to Collins' colleague - he knew how much I would like to be that Michael Collins - who had remained silent so far.

"I say we must have patience. The failure of the Easter revolt shows that we are not ready yet. Not with half of our men committed to being slaughtered in France. No desire to be among those many? "

Alistair shrugged, his face hidden by the mug. He did not deny having cherished the idea of joining the British army, but the thought of having to fight under the banner of the Union Jack instead of under the Scottish flag had so far withheld him.

He expressed this opinion aloud when the alcohol had dissolved the tongue sufficiently. Collins shook his head.

"When it comes to freedom, it's worth fighting. Even if for someone else. "

Alistair attacked the fifth beer. Or was it the sixth?

"You are drunk."

Collins stared at him with sad eyes. "We all are. Drunk with dreams. "

Dreams.

The only thing one could aspire to.

With Valera stuck doing forced labour and most of the men able to fight busy elsewhere little remained to do in Dublin except discussing and distributing pamphlets.

However, Alistair decided to stay a while longer. Collins helped him find accommodation in Dublin, acting as an intermediary for an attic owned by some distant relative.

On the floor, there was a layer of grease and dirt so old it had become fossilized. The wood of the window had embarked for the frequent rains combined with poor maintenance and now between the frame and the wall there was a crack of a few millimetres, enough to let pass a breath of icy air at night. There was no running water and the mattress crawled with bugs.

"Better than sleeping in the open."

Sometimes, sprawled at the window, he saw Evelyn pass by.

Most of the time, however, he spent his days with Collins, O. and what little remained of Sinn Fei, because there was so little reason to return to Edinburgh. A month after his arrival, Evelyn herself pointed it out, talking to him from the bottom of the street with one hand over her eyes and the other clutching the woollen shawl draped over her shoulders, her hair tight in a bun.

"Aren't you homesick?" she pronounced the words slowly so that Alistair could read her lips.

"I have no reason," he replied, giving small taps at the end of his cigarette to drop the ash onto the railing. Evelyn hesitated.

"Don't you have a family?"

"Nothing worth coming back for."

Then the conversation still went on for two or three replies, until he languished at all and Evelyn saluted, moving away with the bold step of one who has music in her soul.

Siul, siul a run

You could hear her singing.

Sometimes, in the evening, O.'s words would sneak into his ears like a worm that in place of eggs leave behind a slight sense of guilt for not being together with all the other Scottish youths who had signed their death sentences attracted by a colorful poster, by a man pointing his finger or by a little girl asking "What did you do in war, dad?"

Then he turned in his bed or, if he had any, lit a cigarette, regardless of how the smoke would impregnate the sheets and the wooden walls, wrapping the crucifix that should not be touched under pain of the most atrocious tortures.

But Alistair would have gladly punched that crucifix with his knuckles and slammed against the wall to destroy it in his hypocrisy. God had lost his place in the Scotsman's life since too long. There was no room for God when there were three brothers and no one shared more than one parent. Alistair realized he was clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles were bleached. Someone screamed in Gaelic downstairs.

In Dublin, one could pass the time reading in the newspapers how a war reduced to the dripping proceeded. Part of the Sinn Fei printed protest pamphlets in a clandestine printing house. The typography where Alistair found himself working, along with Collins, O. and a couple of other young men who would soon be enlisted and whose names he would eventually forget. Collins had served at the beginning of the war, but a bullet in his leg had crippled him and provided a permanent disability visa. O. was judged unfit due to latent tuberculosis.

He was sometimes seized by attacks of nervous cough due to the dust or other substances used in the printing press. There were no windows and heavy air choked the breath, but hard work paid off.

The reward was to see three-page booklets each stacking on the floor in groups of twenty to be tied with a string still in wet ink.

They told him that Evelyn had written many of those pamphlets.

That girl had a fairy tongue they said.

She’s a lenhamsidhe, they said. A muse who gives creative inspiration in exchange for your soul.

"How did you meet her?" Asked Alistair. Collins and O laughed, nudging each other like two friends who remember a very funny episode known only to them.

"If anything, she met us" said Collins when he noticed Alistair was still in the room. He clicked his tongue impatiently as he wiped his blackened hands with a cloth that could not have been filthier.

"Hers is one of the oldest families in the city. It could also be said they arrived with Baile Atha Cliath itself. And Angus O'Donnel has nothing to envy to Valera for patriotism. "

"I would say that Valera has to envy something," echoed O. screaming to overwhelm the noise of the press. "With them, the Easter revolt would have ended in glory," he added with the conviction of one who declaims a truth considered absolute.

Already. He would have gone with them.

Even with just Evelyn.

Alistair wiped the sweat from his forehead, while the first spark of real interest for the young Irish girl was lit. He convinced his friends they had worked enough for the day and he took them to a pub he was used to frequent.

"Tell me more," he invited them when the first beers were under their noses. There was no need, but Alistair believed that a good story could not be such without a good beer or a good glass of whiskey to warm the throat.

Collins and O. spoke at length about Evelyn without always agreeing with their respective claims about the girl. But there was no doubt about one thing: Evelyn was unclassifiable

She was an only child and a beloved daughter, educated according to the fashion in vogue in Europe at the time; educated in the history of Eire, but she had also a rebellious and mischievous spirit. Of the kind that brought her to ride a horse to gallop on the moor if she was caught by such a whim. Except for the name, it had nothing in common with the homonymous of Joyacian memory. At fifteen, her father had sent her to America to a couple of distant cousins, for the summer, and since then she had returned more aware of the state of poverty in which she was living, not a clear desire to put a solution. However, if Evelyn had the rebellious spirit with which she was described, she could hide it very well. Graduated in letters from Trinity College, it was rare to see her walking alone in the streets of Dublin and for the moment her only contribution to the Irish cause was reduced to amiable discussions in the parlour.

"But don't be fooled. He would not hesitate to take a gun if it were of any use."

For the moment, however, Evelyn was a good Irish girl, who also had its advantages. Above all, it allowed Alistair to anticipate her movements, especially on Sunday mornings. There was no other place to find the girl if not the town's cathedral.

"You are a true daughter of Ireland" welcomed her on the steps of the church. "If I were a true daughter of Ireland I would praise the ancient gods who live in our hills

He offered her a drink, Evelyn refused.

"I have to go home

"Tonight. Come to my place tonight."

Without a question mark, but the girl had already moved away, raising her skirt so that the hem would not get dirty in the mud of the grubby Dublin streets.

Alistair knew he would go to hell. He knew it, and he didn't worry much. He preferred to enjoy life, the present, with its ugliness and the beautiful things for which it was worth getting up in the morning.

He loved drinking and smoking. He loved fights and never refused one. He cursed as easily as he breathed, to the point that those who rented the attic now made the sign of the cross just for having seen him

Yet there would never have been a more courteous man with a woman. More in love. Ah.

He sat down heavily at the table, oily paper on the right, inkwell on the left. His hand trembled to the point that he was about to overturn the inkwell twice.

"Miss Evelyn.

I think I'm madly in love with you. "

Silly.

He tore up the letter. He slapped himself. He put his head in his hands. Alistair K. take a grip on yoruself, he told himself. You can have all the women you want, he told himself. You can also find economic ones. Forget Evelyn, Sinn Fein, Ireland. Forgoddamnsake. Look at yourself. You're pathetic

He took another piece of paper.

"Mr O'Donnel.

I ask your permission to court your daughter.

  1. K "

He looked with disdain at the miserable result of hours of trial and second thoughts. The draft was barely legible, so many were the erasures, and the good-draft was currently stuck at the first line. He put his head back in his hands, oblivious to the traces of ink his dirty fingers would leave on his hair and cheeks, regretting for the first time - for his disgust - he had never opened those manuals on how to become a proper gentleman he had seen walking around the house. Probably such a short cover letter would not make a good impression.

Outside the window, it began to dawn when he came to such a conclusion. He realized he had a terrible stiff neck and numb legs from sitting all night and never getting up. Plus, he was dead tired. He had only the will power to prance towards the mattress on which he let himself fall to dead weight, falling asleep immediately.

He woke up late in the afternoon, which did not suit him at all, and he felt a pang in his stomach, a little sore from his sleeping position but at least again in full strength. He washed his face, neck, and ears in the basin by the bed, got dressed, then headed down to the print factory, his stomach calling for breakfast.

Collins and O. were already working.

"Crazy night?" They greeted him with a facetious tone, stopping the press to give him a pat on the back each.

"It could have been more pleasant. Do you have a cigarette? "

Collins handed him one together with the lighter. Alistair's belly gave a further gurgling sound of protest. "And I thought the press was noisy," laughed Collins as he tied a new bundle of leaflets with a string.

"Can you just blabber or do you have a solution to the problem?"

Collins laughed again, coughing a bit. "My wife will be happy to have guests. We don't have much, but it's enough to fill the stomach. "

There was a lot of debate during lunch about more or less serious subjects, including the Scottish interest in Evelyn O'Donnel.

"Then you like her, eh? His family organizes a party to raise funds for our soldiers and I happen to be among the invited. I don't think anyone will object if I bring a guest too," concluded Collins, rocking in his chair. "But you'll need to find a suitable dress. I am surprised the one you wear has not already come to life. "

In another predicament Alistair would not have denied him a punch in the face as a warning; however, finally having a full stomach and pleasant company made him merely puff his mouth.

The O'Donnells owned a mansion a few miles from Dublin where the family loved to travel in the summer to escape the stench and confusion of the city. The party would be held there, between the first floor adapted to accommodate as many people as possible and a large front courtyard where a gazebo had been set up under which a couple of violinists were tuning their instruments.

Collins braked with a great squeal of rubber, raising a cloud of dust around the car that O had lent him for the occasion - and if he comes back with a scratch, I swear to God, accompanied by the reassuring gesture of crushing an imaginary head in hands.

Between a glass and a handshake, chewing snacks as proof of their wealth when he wasn't busy talking about various subjects, Alistair came face to face with Evelyn's parents. There was no doubt that Angus O'Donnel knew how to elicit the respect of others with his mere presence and not only because he was almost five feet tall. Alistair thought that he would not be sorry to have him as a father-in-law, to replace in the role of paternal figure that little good he found himself as a father.

"Are you the young Kirkland that my daughter told me about?" Angus asked in a tone that already tasted like a warning. Alistair would not have been surprised to discover that Angus O'Donnel had an army background - or a present, as he would soon learn. The Scotsman appealed to those good manners that they had tried so hard to get him into school, at least until he was old enough to run out of a window one night and not go back.

"Yes, sir."

The words sounded strangers to his ears. "And I wish to have your permission" - argh, thank God that there was none of his old acquaintances to witness such a weakness - "to court your daughter."

Ugh, now he had an urgent need to punch someone. Dylan, I'm going to cancel that smile of yours, tooth by tooth. But Dylan was in Turkey with other problems to think about.

"And why should I give my beloved Evelyn to a person who is standing here turning his thumbs instead of fighting for his country?" replied Angus, adamant.

"It's not my country."

"Ah. It's not even ours, but our young people have joined up anyway. "

Alistair thought he could not contract his jaw any more than he was already doing. He felt the veins on the back of his hands throbbing. The suit that a friend of Collins's friend had lent him was too small and itched.

"Dad," Evelyn protested in a lively voice, still controlled. Her lips moved to form new words, but Alistair stopped her before she could make a sound.

"No, I understand. Sorry for the bother. "

As he walked away, he grabbed a new glass of liquor absently from one of the trays that passed silently among the guests. He emptied it almost without realizing it. Then another, because there was no better remedy to lift a bad day. At one point he found himself at the back of the villa, where the manicured garden abruptly gave way to a medium-sized wood.

It was there that Evelyn joined him, her cheeks flushed with wine. She approached and touched the back of his hand with a cautious and gentle gesture, like with a horse not yet tamed.

And yet, Alistair let her to guide him to the iron swing under the porch. There were no cushions to make the sitting more comfortable. Evelyn lifted the hem of her embroidered wool skirt so that it didn’t get in the way before she sat down on the swing with a small hop. He invited Alistair to imitate her.

"It doesn't matter what my father says. I'm glad you preferred Ireland to the war."

In the dark, her face remained hidden, except for the profile drawn by the moon and the lamps, with the red strands of hair creating a halo of flames around her head. The gentle hand still resting on his had the softness of youth. Yet Alistair had no difficulty imagining that hand on the trigger of a rifle, throwing a grenade as far as possible or dirty with soil. Then he imagined what it would be like to bring that hand, so small in his, to his lips and lit up with desire. He jerked back, rising as if something had stung him.

"It's time to leave," he said, going to look for a cigarette to light with nervous gestures.

But then she was behind him, hugging him wither thin arms, her face and breast pressed against his back. And then there was no need to ask permission for Alistair to bend over the young girl in a kiss, passioned and short lived. They heard, followed by a voice calling. "Evelyn".

Alistair took the opportunity to disappear. The cigarette was still tight between his middle and ring finger. He put it to his lips so that the taste of nicotine could erase Evelyn's taste.

He smoked until his fingers burned near the car waiting for O. to come back, pretending to be sober. Between the two, Alistair was the one who held up the alcohol better, so he was the one driving on the way back, with the lights on and the foot perhaps pressed too hard on the accelerator.

Back in Dublin, he soon found himself in one of the alleys that smelled of misery and cabbage. O. mumbled a song of dubious taste, swaying left and right when he didn't lean on his shoulder with all the weight of his body. Suddenly a member of their group, already tips, recognize them and dragged them to the pub. Of what happened next, the Scot remembered little. He only knew that at some point in the night he was back in his room, sitting at the rickety thing that was his desk.

His cheekbones ached and his knuckles were raw. It seemed he had finally been granted that brawl for a reason so futile that it had no use other than being just a pretext. He had already forgotten it.

He moved a few reddish tufts from his eyes, blinking to clear his eyes. Somehow he found a piece of paper to write on, a pen and some ink.

"Miss O'Donnel".

He deleted the sentence with a dry line.

"Evelyn."

He also discarded the second attempt .

"Miss Evelyn" He stared at those two words in slightly coarse italics, repeating them like a child learning to read. Miss Evelyn. It didn't sound bad; neither too direct nor too formal.

"Miss Evelyn, circumstances unknown to me have ignited in me a deep passion for you. I'm going to ask for your hand when I get back from the war. I hope "- or should we say" please? "- that your father will grant it to me.

AK "

When I'll be back. If I come back.

Four months later he found himself in no man's land where Belgium faded into France. Two years later the war was drawing to a close and the Sinn Fei proclaimed the Republic of Ireland. A year later Alistair landed again on the Irish coasts.

***

It was a joy to see Evelyn waiting at Dublin docks. Although Alistair had sent a letter a couple of weeks earlier to inform her of his intention to return to Ireland, expressing his desire to see her again as soon as possible, he had received no reply.

Evelyn greeted him with a toothy smile. Alistair had a vague feeling - hope - that he would throw his arms around his neck . If she had not been educated otherwise.

"Did you come to stay this time? Wonderful day, don't you think?"

Evelyn raised her arms over her head and stretched herself with a satisfied sigh. She had picked up her red hair in a low bun in the current fashion. Alistair nibbled the mouthpiece of his pipe shaking his head.

"I came to fight."

"You are not Irish."

"Is this another of your father’s objection?”

"No. Only a consideration. "

Alistair just shook his head. Then he offered her his arm, nodding toward the street. Evelyn was quick to get the message. Because of the war and its inconveniences, she had sharpened since the last time he had seen her and the juvenile fat had given way to a dry and more adult form. Premature wrinkles were visible around the eyes, the mouth and nose and in smiling the woman showed a broken dentition. But it didn't matter.

Despite everything, walking the streets of Dublin was still pleasant; although it was increasingly difficult to ignore the hardships the city was experiencing. Few people walked the streets and all seemed eager to be elsewhere as soon as possible. At least they wouldn't have commented on the fact that an unmarried girl went around arm in arm with a man who wasn't her boyfriend. Not yet.

"Why don't you stop for dinner?" Evelyn suggested when they were at her house. Alistair evaluated the offer, weighing good food and good drink on the one hand and being judged as not enough on the other.

A deep gurgle of the stomach answered. "If your family agrees."

"The invitation comes from them."

Given the not-so-friendly terms with which Alistair and Evelyn's father had left years before, the Scotsman was partly surprised. However, he hoped almost three years spent in the trenches, having been present in the Somme and the rank of sergeant were sufficient because Angus O'Donnel sweetened his opinion.

"Sergeant Kirkland," Angus greeted him and Alistair wondered if there was respect or disappointment in how that rank had been pronounced.

"I'm too much of a brawler," he replied, his lips bent into a grin because he didn't think he was justifying himself. Fortunately, Angus nodded his consent, allowing the conversation to continue on less difficult terrain while dinner was being served.

The war had ended to weight on the O'Donnells too, who had nevertheless done their utmost for the community. Only the essentials remained of the servants they had in the past, including the cook for Alistair's delight. The food that was served was simple but tasty.

When the dessert arrived, Angus asked what interest the Scotsman had in a war of independence that did not concern him. Alistair drummed his fingers on the table.

"As I told your daughter years ago, I wouldn't mind seeing an independent Ireland. See the English with their tails between their legs. London must stop do the good and the bad weather. "

Angus took his sweet time in answering. He chewed calmly on a morsel of cake, took a sip of cider, wiped his lips from the crumbs. And during all this, Alistair believed that he would break cutlery and glasses by dint of tightening them with impatience.

"We all have Sasana in dislike. At least here. But you seem to have a personal hatred,"Angus finally said.

He turned to his wife and daughter. "I'm sure some music would make everyone happier. Why don't you go and tune your harp? "

"Dad."

"Evelyn."

"Fine."

Angus also dismissed the maid, ordering her to close the door to the dining room upon leaving. He and Alistair were left alone, at the head of the table and a couple of places away on the left respectively.

"So, young man. Finally, I would be curious to know why every time we mention the English they seem to be torturing you. If the answer is satisfactory and if Evelyn wants you as a husband, I will have no further objections. "

"And for the war?"

"We are not in a position to refuse any help."

Alistair traced the brim of the chalice with his thumb. Angus was asking him for information that had never left his native house. That much not even his brothers knew. It didn't matter how much he enjoyed playing them tricks even to this day. No matter how much he suffered in looking at Ian or Dylan and seeing the traits of women who were not his mother. He would always have defended them from gossips. It didn't matter how hard Arthur could be a stupid, spoiled brat. If as a child he came to him, holding his teddy bear to his ears to ask why the head of the family had called him "bastard", Alistair would always tell him that the only bastard under that roof was his father. Their father, he had corrected himself in a hurry.

Arthur was thirteen and Alistair twenty-three when the first had returned from school as bleak as death. "Your father is not my father"

Alistair had not denied.

He became aware of Angus' impatient gaze on him and stood up, forcing his tongue to formulate the first words. For Evelyn, he told himself. Because he would have caught Nessie with his bare hands for having Angus as a father-in-law.

"My mother was the kindest, most patient and pious person you could ever meet. When the woman with whom my father had betrayed her came knocking on our door holding a five-year-old brat by the hand and leaving him to us without too much explanation, my mother not only did not blink but always treated Dylan as if he was her son. The same two years later with Ian, despite promises that would not happen again.

And then when I was ten my mother was invited by a friend from school time to spend a few days with her, near Manchester. My mother was radiant, you should have seen her. It was so nice to witness her joy that I committed myself to look after my brothers so that she would not give up leaving. "

Alistair pulled back his chair and leaned forward, his arms dangling between his thighs, his fingers fiddling with an imaginary cigarette. On the table, there was still a little spoon. The Scotsman spun him between the index and middle finger. Better.

"I wish I hadn't. Perhaps if she refused the invitation, if she remained at home, she would not have been raped at the station by an English son of a bitch. "

And another long list of insults, combined with curses in narrow Scottish.

"My mother would still be alive. She died in childbirth. And there's no day you don't think about how that son of a bitch didn't pay. I don't know who he is, so he can be anyone. Who knows, maybe it was in the trench next to it. I hope a grenade exploded in his ass.

Every face I saw I thought could be that bastard. Or his son. Or a friend of his. Someone."

Alistair's knuckles were livid with anger and tension. Unable to remain seated for a second longer, he started pacing back and forth in the room, with the brisk and unnatural pace of the march. Used to resolving conflicts with a fistfight where you ended up drinking your former enemy or sowing the seeds of a centuries-old feud, he struggled to sit still and explain his past.

"And where are your brothers now?" asked Angus.

"My brothers? Dylan was still in Turkey the last time he wrote to me. Ian is recovering at home after bad pneumonia, the gas has destroyed his lungs. He plans to join me as soon as he is healed. Arthur is graduating in philosophy at Oxford, after a year of trenches in Belgium.

Angus beckoned him to stop and against all expectations Alistair obeyed, standing tall with the rigidity of his military years.

"Do you want to fight for this country?"

"Yes, sir."

Angus held out his hand, which was large and rough.

"Welcome to the IRA."

A short time later Evelyn insisted so much that in the end, her father had to give in to her requests to actively take part in the cause. She would join the other Cumann naBan girls someday, whether he gave her his blessing or not. He might as well go along with it, at least he would know where she was.

Evelyn received her first assignment shortly afterwards in the form of an envelope containing important strategic information related to a sabotage mission of two IRA cells and in putting those precious papers in his bosom she felt the thrill of those fighting for their country.

Sometimes she hoped her path would cross with Alistair's but it rarely happened.

The frequency of their meetings was not much different than during the war. And when a courier put Evelyn's life in serious jeopardy, Angus preferred to close his daughter at home, in Dublin, without hearing a reason.

The woman was consuming the floor by walking back and forth when the sound of a motorcycle came from under the window.

Alistair.

Thought formed with the same naturalness of a breath. Evelyn felt her heart rise to her throat. The possibility of an error in his judgment was far from his being. He grabbed the abandoned shawl on the nearby chair. It was November and it was cold.

"Alistair."

He stopped at the door of the house, with a wrinkle of doubt digging into her alabaster forehead. There was no doubt one of the two men on the motorbike was Alistair, but he was not driving. Instead, he leaned clumsily on a young man whom Evelyn did not know. He noticed in him a certain resemblance to the Scotsman, whose head lolled forward in a way that she did not like at all. She decided to approach, her tongue already pressed by too many questions.

"Are you Evelyn?" The stranger didn't give her time to open her mouth. "Help me take it inside. And call a doctor, "he continued. His orders were short and dry. Evelyn didn't move a step.

"Who are you?"

"Ian. The pleasantries later. What are you waiting for? Go call somebody. "

The person called Ian jumped off the bike. Deprived of support, Alistair leaned forward and would have fallen if the other had not been quick to grab him. "Cheer up big brother. Still a little effort. "

And Evelyn saw it. He blanched. On Alistair's side stretched a black stain, of now-dried blood that had soaked the uniform and the makeshift bandage. Blood. So much blood. It made her sick. Alistair's forehead was beaded with sweat. The eyelids dropped heavy on the eyes.

"Help me," Ian pleaded with his legs bent to support his brother's weight.

Evelyn took courage and ran to help him. "For the Holy Virgin Mary, he's boiling."

Alistair seemed to be on fire. And he was trembling. God, how much he tremble

Septicemia.

Evelyn dismissed the thought.

They took Alistair into the kitchen, the room closest to the entrance, where they laid him down not without difficulty on the table normally used by the cook to knead sweets or to slice onions. Evelyn ran to her father's study to write the address of a family-friendly doctor on the first piece of paper available. He put it in Ian's hand.

"Go. Hurry up, "she told him, as if she hadn't been the first to linger.

Alone again she began to wring her hands and walk up and down the room, unable to decide what to do. Alistair barely breathed. Every now and then he murmured something in delirium, even though his words were the grows of a wounded beast rather than words.

Evelyn shifted the braid from one shoulder to the other with a dry gesture. She should have been a nursing school, nothing more than studying letters. Oh, there had to be something to do waiting for the doctor - why was Ian taking so long?

A sound of hooves made her jump and whirl around. He was not the doctor, but Léah, the old cook.

"Miss Evelyn, I know it's hard times but it's not Christian to give ourselves into cannibalism."

Evelyn didn't know whether to burst out laughing or crying. In doubt he decided to do both, hiding her tear-streaked face in her apron. The cook approached Alistair, recognizing him.

"But he is alive. Miss, you should have called someone. ”She scolded her, starting to roll up her sleeves on her thin arms. Evelyn stammered that she had sent someone to call a doctor.

"He may have died before the doctor arrives. Go get some water. Hurry up. "

Evelyn was certainly not used to receiving orders, let alone by a maid. She had always treated servitude with respect but maintained a certain detachment. However, Léah seemed to know her stuff.

Once the filthy tunic was removed from Alistair and the wound washed, Evelyn realized that this was less serious than expected. The bullet seemed to have crossed the belly, but if Alistair was still alive he might have hit a hollow organ and there was hope. The important thing was to prevent him from going into gangrene. She squeezed another piece of frozen water to rest on the man's forehead, noting with apprehension that the temperature showed no sign of descending.

The doctor arrived in the following minutes. He didn't ask why they had brought Alistair there and not to the hospital. He simply put down the tool bag and ran to assess the situation.

It was not the first time they had shot Alistair nor was it the first time his life was endangered, but Evelyn did not know.

Or, she knew it but wanted to pretend it wasn't like that.

"Will he survive?" She whispered because the doctor who was piling up the reassuring instruments on the table gave her hope.

"I need clean bandages."

"Will he survive?" Evelyn asked again, not taking a step.

She had always considered herself a courageous and enterprising young woman but now, when put to the test, she was already struggling to remain standing.

"He will survive if you help me. Don't stay there. "

Yes, Evelyn told herself. It was an O'Donnel. She was a daughter of Ireland. She had entered the Cumann naBan, running to consume the soles of her shoes to carry messages from one part of the country to another. Angus O'Donnel's daughter would not panic for some blood.

"You can go," she dismissed the cook, who had stepped aside to keep out of the way but remained in the room. The woman closed the door behind her with a nod.

"You'll survive," he announced to Alistair over the water, finally boiling to disinfect the rags to be used for bandaging.

"Tell me what to do," he asked finally. The elderly doctor gave her instructions.

Having served for a long time on the battlefield, pulling the bullet out of the wound and stitching it up was the least of the problems. What worried him was the consequences of an infection. It was clear that the patient had a strong fibre and Evelyn had limited the problem a lot by cleaning the wound, but those cases were unpredictable. He had seen young people die for a cut he would not have given two pounds.

He had, however, do everything possible. He administered an antibiotic to Alistair, suggested to Evelyn to pray and instructed her on how to change the bandage.

Alistair remained in the balance between life and death for four days, then the fever finally began to fall and the man gave the first signs of being about to regain consciousness.

When he woke up he was alone.

Ian had to return to the field. Evelyn had gone to town, convinced by a maid that it would do her good to get some air after spending almost thirty-six hours at the Scot's bedside. They had accommodated Alistair in one of the guest rooms of the O'Donnell's villa. The sheets, once freshly laundered, suffered from being in contact with a feverish body. Turning his head, the Scotsman noticed a rudimentary drip that kept him from becoming dehydrated. He then put his hand to his side, feeling the gauzes that protected the recently stitched wound.

When Sínead, the maid, entered the room to check her condition, Alistair was more or less trying to stand up. There was a war to be fought and he, being there to be looked after as a baby, had not intended to do so.

The maid was of another opinion.

"What are you doing? Get back to bed immediately. You almost died. Miss Evelyn kills me if something happens to you. Come on,” she shouted. As she spoke, she pushed him toward the couch. For a person of her age and build, she was incredibly robust.

Whether he liked it or not, it didn't matter. Alistair should have stayed in bed for a few more days - or at least until the fever had passed completely. Then there were the weeks of convalescence. No war for quite some time. The man's protests were of no use.

Evelyn heard him mumble from the front door.

Without taking off her shoes or coat she ran to his room, her cheeks flushed from running.

"Thank God you woke up," she shouted, throwing her arms around his neck with the heat of relief of breathing after e long effort.

She had spent almost forty-eight hours on the watch, fighting against sleep and absent-mindedly eating the little the maid had convinced her to swallow. Finally, however, Leah, who was robust despite her age, had dragged her out of the stale room.

"No but, Miss" she exclaimed with her hands on her hips and the terrible eyes of when she scolded her as a child. "Now you take a nice shower and puts on a clean suit and goes for a ride in the village" and in saying it she was already pushing her towards the bathroom. Evelyn had to surrender because the cook was a robust woman and she was weakened by worry.

she had found the city empty and silent, immersed in an unnatural stillness. Many shops were closed with boards on the door, before which ragged beggars asked for a coin. The smell of smoke and cabbage filtered from under the windows.

Evelyn had crossed one of the popular Dublin neighborhoods to visit the baker, whose daughter was a dear friend of hers. She was a relay too. The O'Briens offered her a cup of hot tea along with a slice of bread and cheese that she didn’t refuse out of courtesy.

As she left, her stomach was a bit less twister.

"Do you want to break me?"

Alistair protested, Evelyn's grip threatening to tear his head from his neck.

"Sorry" she flinched, suddenly shy and with purple cheeks. "The doctor said you shouldn't have too many aftermaths," he continued.

"Glad to know."

"And when you're healed we'll get married," she added as if it were an obvious thing. Alistair grimaced, difficult to tell whether for Evelyn or pain.

"I hope your father now deems me worthy."

Evelyn looked at him thoughtfully. He checked that the bedroom door was closed and took off his clothes, remaining only in his petticoat. Then he slipped into his bed.

They married in the following weeks.

***

About a year later, two things happened. On the one hand, the Irish militias began to discuss the terms of the armistice with their English counterparts. On the other, one June morning found Alistair at the pub early, pale as he had never been. Not even in war or when he was shot had he been so worried. Collins put an arm around his shoulders.

"It will be fine, this is the easy part," he tried to reassure him before waving to the landlord to bring in another beer. So they had finally found Alistair's weakness.

"Have you already thought about the name?"

Alistair grunted like a wounded beast.

"I thought you were used to it. I mean, with three brothers and the rest "

"Ian and Dylan didn't live with us before the age of five. And I was already in college when Arthur was born. Do I have to remind you how my mother died? So tell me once again not to worry and I won't answer any more for my actions," threatened Alistair. He felt his pockets. Collins, anticipating his wish, handed him a cigarette and lighter. "There, the whole package"

The sun was high in the sky and the cigarettes long gone when an Evelyn friend entered the pub to announce that the birth had ended without complications. "A nice boy."

It was tiny, with a wrinkled face, fists closed, and cheeks almost red like the faint down it had on its head. Evelyn held him up with her forearm as the baby suckled from her breast.

"I'd like to call him Eamon," the woman said. Alistair nodded.

"Eamon William."

Evelyn grinned. "Deal."

**Author's Note:**

> A very old fic. Unbetated and translated quickly. There were some historical references, but I forgotten some.


End file.
